


lay my heart down to rest at your feet

by k0skareeves



Series: use my head alongside my heart [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Dialogue Heavy, F/M, First Kiss, Future Fic, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Post Season 8, Post-Canon, Supportive Sisters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 00:15:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21485194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/k0skareeves/pseuds/k0skareeves
Summary: Is love worth her being selfish for once? Even if it’s one sided?She’s not sure.
Relationships: Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Ghost & Sansa Stark, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: use my head alongside my heart [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1536721
Comments: 21
Kudos: 153
Collections: JonsaWeek2019





	lay my heart down to rest at your feet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inejcrows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inejcrows/gifts).

> For Gio, who didn't like how I finished things on part two. Hope this is better!
> 
> This is the third part of my post canon jonsa series. It's best to read part one and two to get some context if you haven't already!
> 
> For Jonsa Week Day 1 🥰 Prompt - Future

She sits outside in the snow, and she sings.

She hasn't done that in a long time, with her back against the heart tree and her eyes watching the faint daylight shining through the red leafs. It's a sad song, one she's heard in another life in King's Landing, one that Shae taught her. She hasn't thought of Shae in many moons, yet here she is, sitting alone in the godswood, singing about a lonely maid who's betrothed died at some battle, leaving her broken in spirit. She wishes she had a friend with her to sing along.

There's a ruffle in the snow behind her, and she turns to find a pair of glowing red eyes watching her every move and for a moment she's startled. She considers screaming for her guards, they're never too far, the Queen is never truly alone. It only lasts a second, though, for the shape moves and she recognizes the big white wolf like it was her own.

"Ghost."

She's not sure why she whispers, but she does. The beast stares at her, moving forward but not close enough to be touched, and she's not sure when was the last time she has seen him. Perhaps it had been after the fight with the dead, but she was so busy, there was so much to do. People to tend to and rebuildings to be made and another war to plan and she supposes she simply lost track of him. She had gotten used to being truly alone, it was hard for her to remember what it felt like to have a loved one at her side at all times. Lady has been gone for so long and by now she's sure she'll never know such joy of having a companion again, not like that.

They sit in silence, looking at each other for a while, until Sansa decides to continue her singing. Lady had always loved it, that she remembers, and she thinks that maybe that is why Ghost has come to her, for her voice. Everyone always wants something from her in the end, her claim, her title, her undying will to forgive, but this time she doesn't mind it. She doesn't mind one bit, and she happily sings for him, all the songs she can remember, until her voice is hoarse and he's laying next to her, keeping her warm while snoring softly.

She's not sure if it's the woods, the songs or missing Shae, but she feels bold enough to run her fingers through his fur. It's not as soft as Lady's used to be, she reckons he must’ve never been brushed properly, but Sansa herself isn't the same soft girl from before, so the lack of similarity feels right.

She falls asleep next to Ghost and dreams of brushing Lady's fur.

* * *

They eat supper in silence, sitting together in the Great Hall. Her solar feels too crowded now, with Jon's brooding silence and Arya's clear discomfort. She wishes she knew how to talk to her sister, but she doesn't. It’s been a fortnight since their conversation and they’ve all barely said ten words to each other. Sansa has seen them sparing in the courtyard, Arya moving just as quickly as Jon, her blows hitting his sword with a loud tud, but they never speak afterwards. She keeps herself busy, attending to petitioners or minding over the glass gardens or simply praying before the heart tree for some solution to this. The most recent development in their arrangement is that Ghost has taken upon himself to behave as her shadow, following her around all day even if most of the time Jon is busy elsewhere. His huffs and puffs can be heard coming from beneath the wooden table where he lies still, waiting to see if she’ll drop some food to indulge his bad manners. Sansa wonders if Jon’s the one that commanded the wolf to always be with her, and if that’s so, she wonders why he hasn’t said anything about it.

Her maester comes with quick steps, a letter in hand, and somehow she knows that means change. He delivers it to her quietly with a whisper, and she looks at the unbroken Raven seal that shows how much attention her little brother has been paying to them all while being miles and miles away.

“It’s from Bran.”

Jon seems startled to hear her speak, his eyes darting to hers quickly before glancing back down. Arya continues to eat unperturbed, the only sign of her acknowledgment are her words. “Well, open it then.”

She wills her hands to break the seal.

_ It will be alright. _

She knows what he means, and she hates it. How can Bran know so much and tell them so little? Had he always known the truth of her heart? Was this always the plan when he proposed the exile? A surge of anger hits her, so terribly enraged at all of them. They left her in Winterfell, alone, after everything she did to get them back together, to keep them safe. She knows she should retire to her chambers, she’s hardly thinking rationally but  _ oh how infuriating _ it is to be seated here, at the head of her kingdom, and still feel herself being forced and coerced and depending on the good will of people whose own wants have more than once been put before hers. She knows it’s not good to feel this resentment, especially towards her family, but Bran’s words burn through her and she listens to herself scoffing, something quite unlike her, at the way he presumed his words would be of some comfort.

Would it really be alright, to wed her cousin, once brother, in front of all the north? Would it really be alright to jeopardize even further her relationship with her only sister - because that’s what will happen, she imagines, with the way Arya’s been acting since said proposal - ? Would it really be alright to bind herself for eternity to a man she so deeply loves, only to grow to resent him once his love for her doesn’t prove to be true? Not in the way she wants, at least. Not in the way she hoped he could. Not in the way he had loved  _ her. _ None of those things seemed alright, not to the old Sansa, the one who believe in true love and marital happiness, and not to the Sansa she is now, the Sansa who’s Queen, who knows the importance of political alliances, of loyalty, of doing her duty to her people, of trusting her family. And yet, it would be the first time in a very long time that she would get what she wanted, something she truly wanted, desired, needed for, wished for at night, even prayed to the gods.

Is love worth her being selfish for once? Even if it’s one sided?

She’s not sure.

* * *

She longs for Shae again, for Margaery’s smile, for Brienne’s strength. Mostly, she longs for her mother. A girl should be able to ask her mother’s thoughts on marriage, even if Sansa is no longer a girl, even if she’s been married twice before. Even if her mother would most likely hate the thought of the suitor in question. She ought to ask her mother about such matters, but like most things in her life she’s been robbed of this opportunity as well.

She sits in the sept her father had made built for Catelyn Stark. Ghost is next to her, so quiet, he’s always so quiet, like Lady was. She takes comfort in his presence but she also wishes someone else was with her. Someone taller. She shakes her head of such thoughts, stares at the stone walls in the low light. Could she hope for something like this? A partnership, perhaps? Something that could one day grow into something more. Would his feelings ever come close to matching hers? Would she ever feel comfortable in expressing said feelings? In being completely vulnerable with someone, like she hadn't done in a long time, not ever since she was too young to even understand what such vulnerability meant?

She’s not sure of this either.

* * *

It’s a bold move but she needs advice.

Sansa can’t recall if there was ever a time where she came to Arya with such troubles, but given that they hardly had any time together after their departure as children, she assumes this would be a first. It’s a strange feeling, to be so weary of speaking to her own sister about matters of the heart when she’s three and ten and has lived through wars and tyrants and beatings. Yet, while standing outside Arya’s chambers, her palms sweat, her heart races, her body shivers. Her breath is uneven when she knocks, but she tries her best to hide it all behind her mask. The Queen has no silly fears.

“It’s open!”

Sansa commands Ghost to stay outside, bids him to go for a walk somewhere if he wants, his red eyes searching her face with a question she can’t quite read before he settles himself in the hallway, as if another part of her Queensguard. She doesn’t mind having him with her, she’s actually growing accustomed to it, his presence a comfort to her, but this conversation is meant to be private and something tells her that if Ghost is there than  _ he  _ will be there too in a way and she can’t have that. She’s not ready. Not yet, not before listening to what her sister has to say.

She enters the room to see Arya moving around, messy things sprawled at every surface, her trunks open like someone preparing for a long trip. Sansa nearly chokes.  _ No.  _ Not this soon, it isn’t time yet.

“You’re not leaving, are you?”

Arya turns to the sound of her voice. “Oh, it’s you. I thought to be one of the maids. I think there’s room in the bed if you’d like to sit?”

Sansa doesn’t dare moving. “You didn’t answer me.”

“I’m not leaving, not now anyways, but soon. Two moons, remember? I’m just trying to see what I’ll be needing to replace and stock on before I go.”

“You could stay.”

Arya continues to mess with her belongings, folding two cloaks, opening a leather bag to check it’s contents, checking the sole of some boots. Not once does she looks at Sansa.

“Why would I stay?”

“Why did you leave?”

She doesn’t know why she asks, this isn’t what she’s come to talk about, and yet the sight of her little sister, her only sister, seeminlung packing her belongs to embark on yet another journey that would certainly take her miles and miles away has Sansa struggling to breathe, a flood of words begging to be freed from her throat. She watches in silence as Arya’s movements began to slow, but she’s yet to face Sansa. They both stay in silence for a moment.

“Jon was gone, so was Bran. Gendry wanted me to be a lady in some strange land. There was no reason for me to stay.”

It hurts, Arya’s reasons. She already knew all of this, she had time to dwell on it during the three years she spent alone in this castle, a castle who was once a home, forgotten by everyone she’d ever allowed herself to love. It just hurts to hear Arya speaking so honestly about it, as if it was simple. She supposed it was simple, in the end. Home is hardly just a location. It was made stronger by the people you were with. Without anyone to share it, home could be an awfully lonely place. Sansa knows that by now.

“I was here. I’m still here.”

Arya turns to face her and Sansa hates that she can’t read the expression on her sister's face. Arya has her maks but she doesn’t need them to conceal her thoughts. She’s learned to do that just fine already, this older Arya, so different from that little feisty girl that spoke her mind at every chance she could.  _ She’s grown, like me. Neither of us is the same.  _ The wolves had shed their skins and adjusted themselves in order to survive.

“You wanted me to stay?”

“Of course I did.”

“How was I to know? You never wanted me before, Sans.”

This hurt as well, because it was true. And at the same time it wasn’t. To still be held accountable for how she behaved when she was but a child made no sense in Sansa’s mind, yet Arya was younger. Bad memories left their own scars and during their reunion there were no time to build back the bridges they had burned. It was plotting and scheeming and murder and war and then Arya was gone for years, and Sansa should’ve said something sooner, she knows that, but she was so tired. So hurt. So desperate to make sure they stayed safe, her family, her people, the North. She just wanted them to be safe.

She did her duty and in the process she forgot the damage unspoken words could do to one’s heart after being left in the dark for so long.

“I thought we’d have more time. To talk, to fight, to sit in silence. I thought that we would have time for that, after the war was own, after Cersei dying, after coming to Winterfell. But you didn’t come back with me. None of you did. And then I had all the time in the world to speak my mind and no one to share my thoughts with.”

“I thought you didn’t like me anymore.”

“Don’t be silly, you’re my sister. I’ll always love you.”

“I know that.” Arya sighs, her hands closed into fists. Sansa looks at her, trying her best to understand. “I know that, Sans, but that doesn’t mean you like me. You can love someone and not like them very much. I know that for a fact.”

“Because you don’t like me either.”

They stare at each other, in silence. Arya is so much smaller than she remembers. Sansa had always known that she would be tall, and Arya had always been the short one, but she’d looked so big that night during the fight with the dead, and bigger still on that pier while saying she wouldn’t come back home. Now, standing in her chambers, the room a mess much like it was all those years ago when they were children and Septa Mordane would scold Arya for her bad manners, Sansa can see how her sister is truly still a girl at heart. A girl who had to grow up too fast. A girl that went through a different type of hell, but similar to Sansa’s in some way, just to come back home and almost lose it all again. Much like Sansa, Arya had to become something else entirely to survive.

She doesn’t really know this version of her sister. She’s seen her fight, she’s seen her strategise, she’s seen her smile, she's even seen her cry, but they hardly know each other. It doesn’t matter. They have time. If Arya decides to stay, they have all the time in the world. To learn again. To get to know one another. To go back to being sisters and not just strangers that share blood.

“Would it be so terrible if you stayed this time?”

“It wouldn't be terrible, no. But I have to think about it.”

Sansa’s heart feels like it’s gonna break.

* * *

Another letter from Alys Karstark sends her straight to the heart three.

_ I love him. _

She kneels in the grass, yes, the grass because it hasn’t snowed in two days. It’s still unbelievably cold, but her maester says that spring is fast approaching, and the lack of snow seems to only emphasize that. The weirwood leafs look reader, the birds sing louder, everything feels more alive.

_ I love him. _

Ghost went out to hunt, so she’s alone. She looks at the carved face, thinks of her father, closes her eyes, thinks of her mother. She prays. For strength, for bravery, for patience. For Robb, for Rickon, for Uncle Benjen, for Margaery and Shae. She prays for Cersei too, and Jaime Lannister, for aunt Lysa, for Petyr, even for the monster that was Ramsay. She prays for Theon, Septa Mordane, the young boy the Hound killed in Joffrey’s name the day Lady bit him, for the Hound and Joffrey themselves. For princess Shireen, even if she had never met her, for poor Lord Varys, for Missandei of Naath, for everyone who had to die while she got to live, being that death came to them by her hands or not. She prays for herself, mostly, for her name, her family, her lands, her people. They’re all part of her now, she’s responsible for them, she loves them, she wishes to protect them. Vowels to do so. Prays that she can. She also prays to be making the right decision, prays that the Lords will understand, prays that  _ he  _ will understand. Prays for a long spring and a fertile summer, for sons and daughters, for peace between the North and South, prosperity to Westeros.

She prays for him, relentlessly, everyday she kneels and prays for him.  _ Jon. _

“I love him.” she whispers, the first time she actually speaks the words other than in her mind.

_ I love him, I love him, I love him. _

“I love Jon.”

“Then why haven’t you said yes?”

She opens her eyes, turns so fast she falls on her butt, her heart a loud thud in her chest. Arya is standing there, so close, too close to Sansa that she could touch her, a cheeky smile on her lips. She fights the urge to roll her eyes.

“It’s not proper to sneak up on people.”

“When have I ever been proper, Your Grace?”

Sansa does roll her eyes now at the use of her title. Arya stretches out a hand and Sansa takes it, getting up. Her skirts are dirty with grass and some mud. She’s too distressed to mind.

“Did you mean it?”

“What?”

“Arya.”

“What?”

“You know perfectly well what.”

Her sister smiles and Sansa’s tempted to be angry but she can’t fight the smile forming on her lips. She laces her arm with Arya's as they began to walk back.

“I thought you hated the idea.”

“Why?”

“Because you didn’t say anything.”

“Well, you didn’t ask.”

They’re smiling at each other again, and Sansa finds it in herself to be brave.

“So it doesn’t disturb you?”

“It did, at first. Jon is my brother, he’s always been. Not my half brother, not my bastard brother. My brother.”

“I know that. You like him a lot more than you like me, probably loves him more as well.”

Arya stays quiet, her lips pressed into a line.

“It’s okay, Arya, it makes perfect sense.”

“I was awful to you, back then.”

“We were awful to each other. And we were children, highborn spoiled sisters of very close age and with very different interests. We bickered like siblings do. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“Still, I was difficult.”

“Yes, and I was a bratt. And we both lived.”

“Aye, we did. And now you’ll marry Jon and you’ll have the most adorable black haired and blue eyed babies.”

Sansa pauses and turns, her eyes locked on Arya’s. Her little sister is trying to hide a smile. Sansa’s heart feels swollen, her eyes teary.

“You don’t hate me for it?”

“Of course not, Sansa. You love him, and he loves you.”

_ He doesn’t. _

“You’re mistaken.”

“Sevens, you’re the smartest person I know, Sans. You can’t be blind to his affection.”

_ He’s doing what honor demands. _

“He’s just keeping his promise, the one he made to father’s ghost. He thinks he still has to keep me safe.”

_ I’ll protect you, I promise. _

_ No one can protect me. No one can protect anyone. _

Yet when it mattered, he had protected her. And in return she protected him, even if she had to break an oath made here in the godswood, in front of the heart three, to ensure that he would be safe. She’d do it again if it she had to. She knew she would.

_ I love him. _

He had said he was sorry. He seemed to understand, seemed to have made peace with all that had happened. Was he telling the truth? Not to her, she knows he believes every word he told her, kneeling in front of her at the Queen’s solar that day. But was he telling the truth to himself? Could he face being her husband, her prince consort, after what she had done? Would he grow to resent her? Would he think of  _ her,  _ the woman he had loved, the woman he had to kill for his family, when he laid with Sansa on their wedding night, and every night after, until she was with child?

This was the reason for all the fuss, was it not? To put a child in her, to prevent the lords from getting too restless and forcing some stranger on her, to guarantee that the Stark lineage would live, that the north would remain a free and independent kingdom? It is not about what Sansa wants, it has never been about that for her. It is about what she needs to do.

A Queen has a duty to her people, to her kingdom, and to herself.

Marrying the man she loved seems to be hers.

“You should speak to him.”

She looks at Arya, who’s watching her with questioning eyes, but chooses to remain quiet, waiting for Sansa to answer.

It comes out in a whisper. “I’m not as brave as you.”

Arya laughs, the sound echoing through the woods, the wind carrying it all the way to the courtyard where the children play, their laughter mixing together in one. Her sister wipes tears out of the corners of her eyes while Sansa feels herself blush in shame, but it’s true. She’ll never be as brave as Arya, but there’s other things she’s good at. She knows that now.

Arya puts a hand on her shoulder, still smiling, and speaks loud and clear. “Sansa, you’re the Queen in the North. You’re as brave as one can be.”

She sighs, closing her eyes before answering. “How can I be brave when I’m always so afraid?”

She listens as Arya draws breath to answer but it’s another’s voice that speaks. “That’s the only time one can be brave.”

Both women turn to find Jon standing at the entrance of the godswood, a few feet away from them, Ghost’s enormous figure at his side. He’s wearing his training gear, sword in hand, and at that moment he reminds her so much of Robb she could cry. She wants to cry ever since their talk, ever since he uttered the words  _ She could marry me _ but she has refrained herself from doing so.

_ I love him. _

The three of them stay in silence, she can feel Arya’s eyes moving from Jon to her, the three of them waiting to see who would speak first.

“I was waiting for you but you never showed, so I asked the guards and they said you were here.”

He’s talking to Arya, but his eyes never leave hers. “We were praying” she says, before Arya can start something she’s not yet ready to face. Jon’s gaze turns to Arya for a flick of seconds before going back to her, his expression curious.

“I see. I hope my presence isn’t disturbing your prayers, Your Grace.”

“Nonsense, we’ve already finished.” Arya says, surprising Sansa with a quick peck on the cheek before walking towards Jon. “We’ll see you at supper, Your Grace. Plenty of time for you to dwell on those prayers we were talking about.”

Sansa’s sure she blushes a shade of pink, her eyes on Jon again, and he gives her a small smile. Arya catches up with him and they’re going away, their backs already turned, before Sansa has a chance to smile back. Ghosts stays, staring at her from a distance, waiting for her to tell him where they’ll go.

_ I love him.  _

Resolute, she turns to admire the heart three while calling for her wolf to join her side. She knows what she must do.

* * *

She writes a letter to Alys Karstark. Another to Lord Royce. A third one to her uncle Edmure. She writes to Bran as well, even if she knows he's already seen everything. His council will be grateful for it, she supposes. And she needs to make herself very clear on what's happening so there's no misunderstanding.

She doesn't send them, not yet. They're ready, signed and sealed with her direwolf sigil, but they sit untouched at her desk when she rises for supper.

Arya said she should talk to Jon, so that's what she'll do.

* * *

Her sister said she was brave but even Arya could be mistaken.

She spends supper with her eyes down, barely touching her food. Turns out there's a little part of her that still has hope one day Jon might grow to love her, and that little part is terrified that saying something will only serve to have her heartbroken much sooner. It's better to dream, she thinks, to imagine that one day she'll be happy. Really happy, with her family next to her, her kingdom safe and strong. Asking Jon means risking a shatter to this illusion.

She feels Arya's eyes on her the entire meal, but not once she glances up to meet her sister's stare. She eats poorly, and excuses herself early claiming a headache.

She feels two pairs of eyes staring while she leaves.

* * *

Sansa tosses and turns in bed, and yet can't for the life of her go to sleep. It's late, so very late, there's not a single sound out there, only the wind blowing leafs of threes.

She's restless, her mind racing, her body on fire despite the cold weather.

_ She could marry me. _

What did he mean by that? Oh gods, she's losing her mind. The dragon prince - no prince and no dragon but that's what she calls him when she allows herself to be riled up - has found a way into her heart and is now haunting even the few hours where she's supposed to be resting and she hates him with all she has.

_ I love him. _

Were she able to think properly she wouldn't do this, but she's not, so she gets out of bed, wrapping her furs around her nightshift and she trots down the hall, startling her guards who dare not question her of her actions. She walks all the way to his chambers, where a light is still visible under the door and it pleases her to know she's not the only one who has trouble sleeping tonight.

She should knock first but her enraged mind tells her The Queen doesn't need to knock so she tries the door and happily discovers that it's not barred.

She pushes it open with a furry she barely recognizes, prepared to demand an answer out of him instantly, and yet what she sees stops her actions completely.

Jon's sitting at his desk, yes, with candles lit all around the room, a fire burning, his bed undisturbed. However, he's sleeping, peacefully, head rested against his arms on the table, his hair untied, a few black curls falling in front of his eyes. Ghost is lying on the ground next to him, watching Sansa with a stare that tells her how rude she's been for barging in like that and interrupting his sleep. She closes the door behind her slowly, trying not to make a sound, and turns to further admire the scene in question.

Jon's still in the same clothes he wore for dinner, but he has discarded his cloak, his shirt a deep grey much like Greywind's fur coat had been. He appears to have been writing letters before falling asleep, a few discarded papers crumpled to his left, a feather still clasped in his hand, the ink surely dry by now. It occurs to her that this is the first time she has seen him this relaxed. He looks younger, softer, more like the boy he was the day they all left Winterfell, more like the lad he'd been when he held her in his arms in Castle Black. His lips are slightly parted, the fire painting them pink, and Sansa wishes she could give him a kiss right here and now.

She wouldn't know what to do, of course. A woman twice married and once bedded and yet, she has never been kissed. Not properly, not in that way that the songs talk about. She's somewhat ashamed of it, deep within her soul, but as Queen there are far more pressing things in her life than to be worrying about kissing, which is a sad thing to think about considering all she ever wanted when she was a little girl was a true love's kiss, and the knight or the prince that came with it.

Ghost lifts himself to greet her properly and shakes her out of her thoughts. Should she wake Jon? She was so sure of asking him when she came, but now...now it seems smarter to just leave. Kinder to just let him sleep. There will be time to talk another day, when he doesn't look so terribly kissable and she isn't so clearly sleep deprived. She'll leave, and she turns, grabbing the doorknob again but Ghost whimpers at her and she hears his master shifting at his desk.

"What...Sansa?"

_ Oh mother, maiden, warrior, stranger. _

She turns to him, his confused and still drenched with sleep eyes meeting her uncertain ones, and for a moment they just stay quiet, eyes on each other, Ghost wagging his tail between them, then Jon seems to get hit by where he is and who she is and he lifts from his chair in such a hurry that it tumbles down with and tremendous noise. They both flinch because of it, and somehow he manages to trip on his own unlaced boots while trying to pick the chair up and he falls over it, landing on his side before hitting his head with some force on the wall behind him.

It's quite the scene and Sansa hurries forward, suppressing a laugh while going around his desk to kneel before him.

"Are you hurt?" she asks in a whisper, although why she's whispering she's not sure.

He lifts his eyes to her, a hand massaging the back of his head. "No, I don't think so. It was simply an act to amuse you, Your Grace."

She laughs this time, and he smiles while watching her, wincing a bit when he tries to get up. She places a hand on his arm, urging him to stop.

"You hit your head pretty hard, you should sit for a while. And there's no need to call me that. Arya doesn't use titles with me, you shouldn't either."

"Arya's your sister."

_ You were my brother once. And I already loved you then. _

"And you're my family, so no need for titles, understood? Queen's orders."

She smiles again, and she finds that it's easier than she thought of, to smile at him, to be close to him, to be herself with him. It's easier than she thought it would be and it only makes it clearer to her that what she's doing is right, even if she's doing it for the wrong motives. 

_ I love him. _

"And what would the Queen have me call her?"

"Just Sansa. Like you used to."

"Aye, alright Sansa. Can I ask what you're doing here? It's late. Far later then appropriate for you to be out of bed and in another man's chambers, might I add."

She bites her lip, deflects her eyes. Arya said she was brave. She can do this.

"I wanted to ask you something."

"Couldn't it have waited until morning?"

"Were you so terribly busy that you couldn't receive me?"

He's the one to laugh this time, and there's something in his eyes she can't quite comprehend, but she lets it slide. It's late and she's restless and the candle lights are probably playing tricks on her. 

"Let's hear it then, what was so pressing that made the Queen come into my chambers at this hour almost causing my impending death?"

"Why did you propose?"

His expression changes instantly to something she definitely struggles to read. Is it anger? Annoyance? Is it fear? She doesn't know. They stay in silence, Sansa does her best to control her breathing to match his, waiting for whatever it is he chooses to tell her.

"It's the right thing to do."

That's not enough. "But why?"

He closes his eyes, sighes, his hand tugs on his curls. A moment passes before he speaks.

"I didn't want you to marry anyone else."

_ Honor, then. He's still keeping his promise. _

It doesn't hurt as much as she thought it would, the realization that Jon is once more doing his actions based on that strict code of honor that Ned Stark passed on to his children. She had already imagined it be because of that, but there was still a sparkle of hope that was born out of his apology to her, and was fed by her heart's desire and Arya's words.  _ You love him and he loves you.  _ Aye, indeed, they loved each other, but different types of love, very different indeed, his statement makes it all so clear, and she would just have to make her peace with it.

"It's settled, then. I accept your offer. We shall be wed within the next moon."

His eyes widen at her words and he stays silent, gives her an affirmative nod. She notices his left hand clenches and unclenches on his lap, but she says nothing about it.

"I'll inform the Lords in the morning. Bran already knows, of course, but I'm sending a letter anyways. I hope he agrees on coming to join us for the ceremony."

"Aye, that would be nice."

He smiles at her, and she returns it. She lowers her eyes to her hands, watches as the lights dance on her pale skin.

"Does the Queen thinks it's safe to get up now?"

She scoffs at him for refusing to call her Sansa, but one can get used to anything given the right amount of time and incentive. She lifts herself up and extends a hand to him, which he takes it even if he doesn't need the help to get on his feet.

His hand is warm on hers, different from that night at her solar, when he was cold and unsure. Arya said she was brave, but she is still afraid.  _ It's the only time one can be brave. _

_ I love him. _

She hears herself speak. "Do you hate me?" Her hand still hold his, she notices his thumb is moving against her skin almost unperceivably.

He looks at her, confused.

"Of course not, why would I hate you?"

"It's just-Arya said something the other day. About how we can love our family and still don't like them. And I know you love me, I understand that, but, do you hate me as well? Because if that's the case then I don't wish to put you through this misery of a union only to risk you coming to resent-"

His hand grab onto hers with force, and she stops talking. He's so beautiful, her dragon prince, her bastard king, her cousin/once brother, and he looks even more beautiful now, with his brows furrowed, his grip strong on her, his dark eyes locked with her blue ones. The candle lights dance on his face, making him seem engulfed in flames for a moment, and Sansa can't catch her breath. She closes her eyes, the intensity of his stare too much for her to bear, and she feels as he shifts in front of her, coming to stand closer, his body emanating with heat, making her hyper aware of all the fabric covering her body. Suddenly, she feels a hand cup her cheek and she opens her eyes to stare at him. Jon’s face is only inches away from her, and she can feel his breath on her skin when he speaks.

“I could never hate you. You’re my si-cousin, you’re my family. I spent three years thinking about all that happened, trying to master the courage to come back here and begg you on my knees for forgiveness from all that I’ve done, do you really believe that would be the case if I hated you? You need not to concern over such things, my darling, I’m perfectly content with our union and I assure you my feelings will remain the same through all of it.”

_ Darling, darling, darling, darling, darling, darling, darling…... _

Sansa takes a breath and she can smell all of him at once and she feels dizzy. Both his grip on her hand and his hand on her cheek burn through her with such intensity she’s not sure how she’s still standing. She stares at his dark eyes for gods know how long, and when she speaks is barely a whisper.

“Alright, then. It’s best that I leave now.”

But neither does she tries to move away from him nor does he give any indication to be releasing her from his hold. Instead, he steps closer still, his chest brushing hers slightly, their noses almost touching, and Sansa’s heart beats to a ferocious rhythm, leaving her breathless and completely at his mercy. She watches as his eyes go to her lips for a moment, and he uses his thumb to gently caress them, and given her current state it’s no surprise that she lifts her hand to rest at his chest, over his heart, feeling his warmth through the fabric of his shirt. His eyes are back on her and it’s too much, too close, too hot, and she shuts her eyes and counts one, two, three seconds and Jon’s lips are on hers.

Everything else ceases to exist.

Everything else but them.

He’s so gentle, giving her small kisses at first, his lips surprisingly soft for a man who endured all that he has. He slowly coercess her to opening up, his hand never leaving her cheek, their fingers intertwined in the other while he gently presses his tongue against her still closed mouth. She allows him in, allows herself to feel, to let go just for this moment, even if it isn’t in her terms, even if his love for her is bound with honor, even if she’s the only one burning with desire. It doesn’t seem like it, thought, when he claims her mouth to him, when he caresses her tongue with his, when he gently pulls away to graze his teeth on her lower lip, when he claims her again, allowing her to take her time, allowing her to explore, allowing her to learn how it is to feel herself relax around someone again. She’s so hot she thinks she might catch on fire, and a part of her hopes it to be true. If this is what fire feels like, she would gladly burn with Jon through all eternity, and she wonders if this isn’t precisely what she’s doing with this union of theirs. It’s not like she has much sense to care, not with the way that Jon kisses her again and again and again, not with the way his thumb caresses her hand in the same rhythm that they kiss, not with the way that this is infinitely times better than anything she’d ever imagined it would be. The songs can't do it justice. Or maybe it’s just him. Maybe this is how dragon princes who leave their sisters behind to go give away their kingdoms kiss, maybe this is how repedent men who spend three years away and never send a single letter back home kiss, maybe this is how cousins/once bastard brothers, half stark half targaryen, all wolf in wolves clothing kiss their Queen. 

Or maybe this is just how Jon kisses her.

Sansa lets out a sound from deep within her throat and Ghost whimpers and suddenly she remembers who she is and where she is and who she’s with. Jon seems to remember as well, slowing parting their lips, planting sweet small kisses on her mouth until only their foreheads are touching. They both need to catch their breath, and they stay quiet, Sansa not daring to open her eyes, afraid of what she might find staring back at her. Has he enjoyed it? Does he want more? Does he want her? She keeps her eyes closed shut and tries to gain back some composure while he gives her cheek one less caress of his thumb before dropping his hand, releasing her hand from his grip as well.

He’s still too close when he speaks. “Aye, you should be leaving, Your Grace. The hour is late and you should rest. I’m assuming tomorrow will be a busy day.”

Only then does she opens her eyes.

He is smiling, his lips plumped, his cheeks flushed red, and that’s all she sees. It’s Jon, just Jon, staring back at her, and she allows herself to breath in and to make sense of all this later, in the privacy of her chambers, in the company of her thoughts and her thoughts alone.

“Yes, it will. Goodnight, Jon.”

She turns and walks to the door, slowly, not trusting herself to hurry yet, still feeling absurdly hot and on the brick of fainting from being in his presence. She passes next to Ghost and lowers herself to give him a small kiss on the head, which he happily accepts. Her hand is already turning up the doorknob when she hears.

“Goodnight, Sansa.”

Only then she allows herself to smile.

**Author's Note:**

> The more I write for them in show canon the more I heal from the finale.
> 
> I hope it was a good read!
> 
> As always, English is not my first language and this work is unbetaed so please excuse any mistakes/typos.
> 
> I'm @sansaravenclaw on tumblr if you ever wanna chat :)
> 
> Thank you for reading! Xxxxxx


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